


Tears for Dean

by ImogenPortchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt Dean, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Prostitution, Referenced BDSM, Underage Prostitution, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 18:33:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10622688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImogenPortchester/pseuds/ImogenPortchester
Summary: Everything Dean ever did was for Sam. That Kit Kat he stole? For Sam. That spinach? For Sam. That dick he sucked? Also for Sam.





	

It’s always been a constant thrum in the back of his mind, a buzzing in his veins: _Sam, Sam, Sam_. Sammy needs to eat, Sammy needs those new cleats for soccer, Sammy needs that expensive calculator for trig, _Sam, Sam, Sam._

Everything Dean ever did was for Sam. That Kit Kat he stole? For Sam. That spinach? For Sam. That dick he sucked? Also for Sam.

Not to say that Sam was blind to it growing up. How could he be? Once, Dean came back with an angry purple bruise on his ribcage. Sam had to help him lift his shirt over his head because of the pain.

Sam asked where it came from and Dean flat out refused to respond. What was he supposed to tell his fifteen year old brother? “The john I was letting lick my asshole wanted to call me Timmy and beat the shit out of me”? Besides, Sam probably already had a few ideas what it was that Dean got up to at night; a few scenarios in his head about where that bruise (and all the others) came from. Hopefully they were more docile, more decent than the truth.

Hopefully Sam didn’t picture Dean on his knees taking every dick that touched his lips just so they could eat dinner each night.

So when Sam casually asks him about what job it was that Dean had in Duluth back in ’98 so he could get Sam that jacket for the homecoming dance, he’s a bit taken aback.

“You know, that white sport coat with the black lining?”

Dean blinks, “Yeah, I remember it. Uh…job?”

Sam nods. “Weren’t you bagging groceries? Or was it shopping carts…?”

He’s dumbfounded. Dean always thought that Sam knew about his illicit activities when they were growing up. Dean did his best to keep it a secret but Sam was just so damn smart, not to mention always up his ass. Dean made sure to tell Sam that it was just bagging groceries, wrangling carts, stocking shelves, cleaning toilets, or mopping up puke. How could Sam not know that the reason he didn’t get his high school diploma wasn’t because of chasing girls and after school jobs? How could sixteen hours a week on minimum wage have gotten them through all the times that Dad left them alone for almost a month—or longer—with just a few dollars and a “Make it work, son”? Was that really what Sam had thought all these years?

Of course, that was what Dean had told him, so really he shouldn’t be at all surprised. It’s just… after he picked Sam up from Stanford Sam had never mentioned those years, Dean’s “working years”, a single time. He always assumed that Sam had figured it out and that was why he never brought it up. Too ashamed of his brother, too embarrassed, too disgusted…

So yes, Dean was shocked to find out that now, almost twenty years later, Sam still had no idea how he actually made a living for them.

“Dean?”

He blinks again and his gaze returns to Sam from where he had been staring off into the distance. “Uh…” He clears his throat and takes a swig of his beer. “It was both actually. Heh.”

Sam grins.

“What made you think of that?”

“I was just thinking about that dance. I had my first kiss that night.”

Dean chuckles. “I remember. You came home smiling like the damn Cheshire Cat.”

Sam smirks. “Remember the first time _you_ kissed me?”

Dean simpers, “Of course.”

Sam rises from his chair and walks across the table, nudges Dean to push his chair back, then climbs onto his lap, facing him.

Dean plants his hands firmly on Sam’s ass. “You’re feeling romantic.”

“I know it’s not really your thing but I can’t help it sometimes. Just thinking about how much you did for me when we were kids… not many older brothers would’ve done that.”

“I was just doing what I had to, Sammy.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“So what other jobs did you have when we were growing up?” Sam asks him from the shower the next morning as Dean is brushing his teeth.

Dean spits. “Uh…you know…the usual shitty teenage jobs, nothing too crazy.”

_Well mostly it was sucking and fucking, the usual, nothing too crazy. But once, in Iowa City, I met this drug dealer who held fucked up sex parties, Requiem for a Dream style. I didn’t get paid in drugs, though, and I didn’t go ass to ass but I did get tied to a St. Andrew’s cross while one guy tied little weights to my balls and ticked the head of my cock with a vibrator. There was the time I was a guy’s footrest for a couple hours. That was hell on the knees and wrists, you better believe me. Another time—I’ll never forget this one—a guy paid me to fuck his wife while he watched from the corner. Then, when he was walking me out, he slapped me so hard that it broke one of my molars because I didn’t “lick her pussy the way she likes, god damn it!” You know, normal teenage jobs._

“Well, like what?” Sam pushes.

Dean sighs and turns toward the shower. “One summer I mowed lawns. I…painted shit for people, worked at some stores. I was a janitor a couple times. Nothing too special.

Sam cuts the shower off and reaches out for his towel on the rack.

“Why the sudden interest in my adolescence?”

Sam steps out, toweling his hair. Dean shamelessly admires the view of the water dripping from his flaccid member. Sam leers at him then drops the act to dry his ass crack.

“I don’t know. I don’t ever remember you really talking about your jobs when we were young. Just figured I’d ask.”

Dean nods. “Come on. Let’s eat then get the car loaded up. That ghost ain’t gonna gank itself.

~~~~~~~~~~

This particular haunting isn’t exactly in the best of neighborhoods. It’s not quite “the hood” but it’s also not at the point of being hipster enough to attract the kind of crowd that would bring it back to life. It’s probably a town on the decline, not on a trendy upswing.

Still, their hunting has no class boundaries. They’ll help anyone who needs it.

They’re stopped at a red light on the way to interview one of the homeowners at his workplace in the heart of downtown. The sun is just beginning to set, the sky a marvelous shade of orange.

Dean is focused on the car in front of them. He can see the driver’s face from her side mirror as she digs a finger deep into her right nostril.

Sam scoffs, “That’s disgusting.”

“I know right. She doesn’t have a napkin or something handy?”

“No. Her, over there.”

Dean looks to where Sam is pointing and sees a young woman, probably early twenties, strutting along the curb, offering her services to the stopped cars across the intersection. She’s okay looking in the face, average, he supposes. Her shirt is tied up like a crop top and her short shorts ride low on her hips. She’s skinny, too skinny. It’s probably drugs, Dean thinks, but maybe she’s just damn hungry.

Dean looks at his brother. “What?”

“I said ‘that’s disgusting’. I don’t know why anyone would want to stick their dick in that. And how could anyone ever let strangers fuck them for money. I mean, you’ve got to be fucking _desperate_ to sink that low. I’d rather die than let myself get to that point.”

Without thinking Dean socks him right in the ear. The car behind them honks and he looks up to see that the light has changed.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Sam yells, clutching the side of his head.

Dean, still seething, makes a sharp left turn, ignoring the blaring horns from the oncoming traffic that he only nearly misses. He pulls into a parking lot on the corner there and throws the car into park. He turns to face Sam.

“You have no right to talk about her like that! You don’t know her fucking life! Maybe she has kids at home to feed. Maybe she’s completely alone. Maybe she’s got a pimp who’s gonna kill her and throw her in the river if she doesn’t make just a few more dollars tonight. Maybe she—“

“Okay! I’m sorry! Jesus! What the hell is your problem?”

Dean shakes his head and puts the car into reverse. “You have no fucking idea, Sam.”

~~~~~~~~~~

They don’t talk about anything except the case for the rest of the night. At the motel they sleep in separate beds, something they haven’t done in years. In the morning Sam and the Impala are gone when Dean wakes. By the time he returns, Dean has showered, shaved, and downed two cups of shitty motel coffee. He’s jittery as Sam tosses the keys and his wallet onto the table, then sits on his bed and opens his laptop.

“Sam?”

Sam glances up at him.

“I’m sorry for hitting you. I shouldn’t’ve done that.”

Sam sets the computer aside and looks at him closely. “Why did you get so upset?” he asks, voice perfectly monotone.

Dean rubs a hand over his face. “You remember the other day when you asked where I got the money for your white sport coat?

“Uh huh.”

Dean sighs. “I didn’t bag groceries…I never bagged groceries.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I didn’t work normal jobs, Sam. That wouldn’t’ve cut it.”

Sam’s features are still twisted in confusion.

“I got upset about the prostitute because I know how she feels… That used to be me, Sam.”

As realization dawns on Sam’s face Dean stands and walks towards the door, not going to leave, but definitely not wanting to stay for the ridicule he’s sure is about to come.

“No…” Sam whispers.

Dean can’t bear to turn around. “Yeah. Five years, whenever I had to.”

“Dean, you never had to…”

“Bullshit!” He wheels around. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“I’m not—“Sam tries to protest, hands up in front of himself but Dean refuses to listen.

“Do you know how many times Dad left me a twenty and said, ‘I’ll be back in a week or two, take care of Sammy’? How can a fifteen year old walk into a supermarket and get a job for a week? The world doesn’t work that way, Sam. But you know what does work? Sex. No matter how bad it got you always had dinner to eat. And I know it wasn’t always the best. Way too much cereal and hot dogs, I know. But I was a kid too. And kids shouldn’t have to suck dick in order to eat and pay for the shitty motel their dad left them in for god knows how long. I was always so scared that Dad wouldn’t come home, that he’d get killed on a hunt and that I’d be stuck whoring myself around whatever town until…I don’t know, until someone went too far and strangled me or cut me up and scattered me in the woods or dumped me in a lake or something. Then what would you have done? How the hell would you have eaten every night?”

“Dean…”

“There was always so much to pay for, everywhere we went. And Dad wasn’t that good at credit card scams, not the way you are. He could hustle pool, yeah, but he was usually too drunk to be worth a shit at it, even when he actually was home…”

Dean stops for a moment to breathe and takes in his surroundings again. Sam is on the edge of the bed, poised to stand but looking like he wouldn’t dare. Like approaching Dean at this moment would be like approaching a bear in the woods. Like he could attack at the slightest movement. He leans back against the door for support and runs a hand through his hair a couple times.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dean gapes at him. “Why didn’t I… Because you were a fucking kid!” he roars. “Would you have told your twelve year old brother when he asked if you had a job that you were getting fucked every night so that he could play soccer and take lunch to school?”

Dean feels that his face is on fire; he must look absolutely crazy right now. He sees Sam’s wet eyes and mutters, “Just forget it,” then walks out the door. He doesn’t get in the car, can’t imagine being behind the wheel in the state he’s in; instead he walks down to a park he noticed a few streets over from their motel. It’s only 10am or so. No kids in sight. He plops down onto a swing and allows himself to push off the ground and take fight.

He didn’t mean to get so worked up. He didn’t realize that he’d been holding this anger inside for so long. The pot had finally boiled over. He made it sound like it was Sam’s fault, what he went through. Of course it wasn’t. He did it for Sam, because he has this deep-seated need to protect him and keep him healthy. He did everything for Sam, always will. Sam never knew because Dean didn’t want him to. He had always just supposed that his lies weren’t good enough because Sam was so smart. Of course Sam would see through to the truth, right? Wrong.

He tries to jump off of the swing as it’s slowing down but he falls instead. His arms flail out to break the fall but his face still scrapes the ground anyway.

“Fuck,” he swears as he rolls over. He manages to sit up and pick the bigger pieces of mulch out of the large scrape on his arm. He feels his face with his opposite hand and his fingers come away from his cheek bloody.

He hauls himself up and makes his way back to the motel.

As he stumbles over the threshold Sam gasps. “What happened?”

“Fell off a swing,” he grunts, trying his best to say that as manly as possible.

“Jesus,” Sam sighs. “Let me help you. Sit down.”

As Sam tweezes the splinters out of his flesh he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Dean shakes his head. “No. Don’t be. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have told you.”

Sam pauses in his ministrations. “Yes you should have, years ago. I was always…so ungrateful. I had no clue what you went through just to support me, support us. You shouldn’t have had to carry this around all these years. Not by yourself.”

“I would never have let you sell yourself, Sam—“

“That’s not what I mean. I mean you should have told me sooner. Maybe not as a kid, I get that, but, I don’t know, after Stanford? After Dad died? You wouldn’t have had to shoulder this weight alone, Dean.”

“I didn’t want you to think less of Dad,” Dean tries lamely. They both know that Dean’s pride would never have allowed him to admit what he did, what he allowed to happen to him.

“I’ve never thought very highly of him anyway, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head.

“This is going to hurt.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He braces for the sting of the hydrogen peroxide.

He can hear Sam’s breathing in the silence as he bandages his arm. He can feel it ghost across his face as Sam carefully applies a small wad of cotton to his cheek, then uses the sterile tape to stick it in place.

“I’ll check it in a few hours and then we’ll just put some Band-Aids on it.”

Dean catches Sam’s wrist as it’s pulling away from his face. He brings the hand to his mouth and places a kiss on Sam’s knuckles. “Thank you,” he whispers, eyes squeezed closed.

“I love you,” Sam replies.

A tear slips from Dean’s eye and lands on Sam’s finger.


End file.
